My notes are full of random phrases,
thoughts cut off mid-sentence,
now devoid of context,
phone numbers that no longer matter,
and hard-to-decipher scribbles
that were probably meant to represent something.
Quite a patchwork, needless to say,
but still the best capture
of my dishevelled life at hand.
And to add an extra splash of colour to it,
I don’t even have a proper notebook;
it’s all on scraps of paper,
on the backs of receipts and tickets
that pile up in an old Christmas basket,
with time playing Secret Santa.
hidden pilcrow 